


Harry Potter and the Writhing Wand and Hermione Granger and the Scientist's Sextant

by alephthirteen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A Time of Crisis, A Transparent Attempt to Make a Less Ridiculous Harry Potter Harem Fic, F/F, F/M, Fleur Delacour - The Eagle in the Shadows, Ginny Weasley - The Bloody Vixen, Harry Potter - The Mother's Son, Hermione Granger - The Mother of The Future, Muggle Nations in Chaos, Multiple Famous Children, Post-War, Potterverse moved forward about 15 years, Ron Weasley - The Last Bachelor, The Golden Trio as Teenage Detectives, Wizarding World On the Brink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:33:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28387842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alephthirteen/pseuds/alephthirteen
Summary: Tom Riddle was a man who tracked in prophecies.  Flayed and corrupted his flesh.  Sought superiority over death itself so that he would ever again by the frightened orphaninferiorto all.  His power? Remarkable.  His cruelty?  Legend.With little insight into his inner workings, the Order of The Phoenix struck mercilessly across all fronts, aided by international allies and loyalist aurors.  All magical artifacts were examined and if so much as a whisper of dark energy was within, destroyed.  The Ritual of Saint Patrick slew every snake on British soil, magical or mundane.  Children subject to the prophecy were shipped to all corners of the Earth.  Losses were dear, the fighting brutal.  Thousands died on both sides.  The Ministry is a melted cavern.  Hogwarts is a leaking ruin.  Dumbledore gave his life for the students' escape, taking a hundred Death Eaters with him.Voldemort's death was ordinary.  The death of a prowler breaking a back window.  He rolled the dice, bet against maternal instincts and lost.  The wizarding world as it had been ended when Lily limped out of her shattered home with her baby in her arms, ferocity twisting her features and death spitting from her wand-tip.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	1. The Past is Prolouge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How we got into this mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes an approach where rather than 'love power' and prophecy, the good guys fought a total war and got all the horcruxes by virtue of just blowing up any dark artifact and snake they got their hands on. That left Tom the Noseless facing a protective mother with a heart of gold with no special immortality powers after James fought him to his last breath, badly wounding him.  
> \-----  
> This all out approach means that adult British wizards were killed, sterility-cursed, or driven mad in such numbers they are are basically a genetic dead end and only a handful of pureblood children on the light and neutral sides survive.
> 
> Muggleborns are significantly more numerous but staying the fuck away from these lunatics in the wizarding world, running basement 'homeschools' with other muggle parents and keeping their heads down.
> 
> Magic and science can interact here but those who can do this are about as rare as Parselmouths and even scarier in a world seeing their last traditions crumble.
> 
> Hermione's suggestions to her mum and dad when they were complaining about the pH scale a stubborn IVF case at dinner led to the first magically able test-tube baby.  
> \-----  
> Known Pureblood children:
> 
> Susan Bones (likely fertile, lesbian, willing to tell the entire Wizgamot that to their face)  
> Astoria Greengrass (known fertile, lesbian, committed to Bones)  
> Daphne Greengrass (unknown fertility, family bankrupt)  
> Harry Potter  
> Luna Lovegood (family typically does not marry)  
> George Weasley (believed sterile due curse in combat, out of country, no interest in marriage)  
> Fred Weasley (believed sterile due to curse in combat, no interest in marriage)  
> Ron Weasley  
> Ginny Weasley  
> Blaise Zabini (gay)

Lord Voldemort has fallen. He defeated the last of the Potters, a family of warrior-wizards old as Caeser only to be slain seconds after by a muggleborn witch in a nursing bra and a bathrobe. The quiet, kind girl had been a Potter's chosen for a reason, it turned out.

Lily Potter's word is law. With her fame, her husband's votes and the friendship of Sirius Black, eternal bachelor and scourge of concerned mothers across England, her grumblings about a law is enough to have it removed from the docket before lunchtime.

Harry Potter, they say, was taught to defend himself by Lily and taught to be a Lord by Sirius, meaning that he's probably as bad as the bed-hopping Black. If not worse because Sirius has broken more than a few hearts and Lily's boy would probably rip out his own before making a girl cry. More than a few families struck the chastity clauses from their daughter's contracts and made legitimacy matrilineal. An accidental grandchild is as good as any and Hogwarts is known for it's curiously numerous broom closets.

Molly Weasley is the witch no one envies. Her three oldest sons and husband gave their lives in the Phoenix-Basilisk war. In tribute, the holdings and votes of all the dark Houses rendered extinct were her spoils.

By age 13, Ron Weasley has appeared more times in _Playwitch_ than any man actually photographed or interviewed, or, indeed, aware the nasty rag exists. There are enough painters, models, photographers and metamorphmagus willing to risk Molly Weasley's ire to claim that this is what the Last Bachelor looks like giving it to a squealing witch, veela, or demoness (in the special editions). He's not even old enough to buy a copy yet. He's a handsome, unmarried boy with an ancient name and until he comes of age, more than a few witches are willing to lock the door, draw a bath, and conjure a rod shaped _just so._

Ginny Weasley is as ferocious as her mother. Dumb luck or no, her killing of a werewolf in the back garden at age six earned the slender ginger a moniker some of the heroes of the war would envy: the Bloody Vixen. No one has attempted to make a fake image of her for _Playwizard_ or _Playwitch_ , or none have survived Molly catching wind of it.

Fleur Delacour's mere presence is enough to make the ministry's offices fly into a panic. Not even her incandescent beauty, rivaling that of the veela's patron goddesses can calm the knowledge of _who she is_ and exactly _what she can ask for_ in return for gracing the chamber. The debt France is owed for its military aid pales next to the debt the Veela are owed. One day, Fleur's mother will visit. Chances are that on the day Apolline Delacour takes her seat in the ambassador's box, the debt will be called.

The next generation has more promising lads and lasses in it than the legends of the Camelot of Arthur's boyhood, but no adults fit to push back against them.

Birth rates have cratered. The Light lost more on the battlefield but after the war, it was the Dark who suffered the headsman's axe and the Dementor's kisses.

Families on both sides suffer under blood curses rendering them sterile. Unless little Luna Lovegood falls farther from the tree than any apple in history, she won't be interested in anything as boring as marriage when she grows up. So unless either of the Weasleys, or Susan Bones marries, no pureblood matches can be made.

Showing more brains than the pure-bloods and half-bloods put together, the muggleborns have gone dark. No replies to Hogwarts letters. Secret basement classrooms of their own using books pulled from ruined manors. Enchanted muggle security cameras, venom-loaded garden sprinklers, cursed lawn flamingos and all sorts of deadly protections are hidden around their homes should someone try to _drag_ them into participation.

Wizarding Britain is dead, the body just hasn't hit the ground yet.

On what will later be called Miracle Monday, Lady Sumana Patil gives birth. Twin girls, as lovely as their mother and healthy as she could want. The barren wife of a barren husband. Under forced confession, she admits to using a muggle clinic.

Dr. Thomas Granger and Dr. Jean Granger's fertility clinic is raided in the night. Four more patient records are found. Three successful impregnations of magically able bloodlines into muggle surrogates or muggle donors providing eggs or sperm to magical couples.

The sum total of Gringotts vaults are seized despite the threat of a fourth Goblin rebellion. Muggle or no, the Grangers are the last hope. If the last grain of gold must be paid to them, so be it. Their services must be retained.

On a return visit, three aurors are maimed and the office is leveled. The attack is deemed to be unintentional and the result a faulty self-sorting rune on a 9x9 Rubik's cube, a muggle puzzle which head Auror Madam Amelia Bones calls "as fun to solve as the Cruciatus curse". 

As both the good doctors are muggles who remained unharmed in the epicenter of the blast, attention turns to their daughter Hermione.

* * *

* * *

The great irony of the pureblood regimes of the 20th is that they have insured that the third millennium will be the that of muggleborns, the squibs, and the muggles. The great houses are reduced to battered scraps, a few scions of light and dark, sterile more often than not from curses and wounds. Our sacred twenty eight are five: a widowed Potter, an infertile and incorrigible Black dog, an all-but-widowed Malfoy who has not yet mothered no matter how many lads she rolls atop of in her husband's bed, a Bones randy as any but she's not of the breeding sort, plus the four gingers in history _least_ likely to get fucked.

No fewer than fifty spontaneous bloodlines have arisen to replace our squandered blood. Prodigies unknown since Merlin and Morgana's age. Children powerful enough to wipe the table clear of the scraps of us.

Gentlemen...this one worries me. We must get control of Hermione Granger, and do so that she does not feel the velvet ribbon is actually a collar. If she ever realizes what she's capable of with one Wizgamot vote at her back? Dark days again. If she marries an Ancient and Noble Lord and bring their votes in? Merlin help us. We'll pine for how much of a say we had under Voldemort's rule.

**Cyrus Greengrass, member of the Special Project on Bloodlines, Population, and Marriage speaking for the pureblood-led "gardeners" coalition. This center-right coalition advocates for the purebloods to restore institutions in the magical world, pass anti-discrimination laws and ensure proper education of the newly-seeded muggleborn lines for eventual ennoblement as 'purified' lines with Wizgamot enfranchisement.**

* * *

I think we're overreacting to this Granger girl. You disgust me, talking about her this way. I gave three boys and a husband to the cause.

Did any of _you_ stand up, my fellow lords? Which of _you_ took up your wand and rushed to the scene when the nest turned over? When undead poured out of a street with starving Death Eaters holding their leashes? Lily herself was the closest thing we had to a force in Lower England and she was inside the wards at Diagon Alley, unable to reply.

Nine aurors responded. They arrived to find a crater with a girl in the middle. Notepad on her lap. Peeling apart a paralyzed Inferni with a slicing spell to see how it's rotting flesh differed from the Death Eater she had done the same to. A muggleborn girl who didn't even know what a Death Eater was cut one of them to ribbons and was taking the other apart for curiosity's sake. 

She went towards the danger because she told me 'she wanted to know how zombies were made' and thought if she could catch one she could find out. All she had were too much curiosity, access to the pre-term pamphlets for Hogwarts and a wand she found at a flea market.

My opinion is the girl deserves Yaxley's and Celwyn's seats. If they were willing to molder in a bunker for thirteen years eating rats and bad crisps and wishing for their lord's return, then their votes never did us any good. Give them to the girl who rid us of the last two of our most-wanteds. Let her retroactively cast the votes they never bothered to show for. If you'd like to apologize to this fascinating young lady for your rudeness today you may join my family for tea on Thursday.

  
**Molly Weasley (nee Prewett), member of the Special Project on Bloodlines, Population, and Marriage speaking for the far-left "abolitionist" coalition which proposed ending all distinctions between pure-blood, half-blood, muggleborn and magical-human hybrids like veela, damphir, maevan, auroran and errisans.**


	2. Increased Salary Expenses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where the best day Minerva McGonagall's had in ages threatens to go wrong.

**The only thing the those cockless squibs got wrong who was wearing the goat-horned mask...**

Antoinette Bones, 1631, after paying a fine for being caught having a sex party in the woods and in so doing triggering a muggle witch-hunt.

* * *

**Headmistress's Personal Parlor**

Hogwarts, Main Tower, 13th and 1/4ths floors

"So this is what you look like excited," Sumana Patil teases, her dark fingers fiddling with a chunky silver bracelet. "Actually excited. Minnie doesn't have to say that she has feelings because I can see it."

"Never thought I'd see it myself," Lily adds.

"If you two are quite done?" Headmistress McGonagall snaps.

"Hardly, but we are your staff," Lily teases. "So crack the whip."

"Did you and James..."

McGonagall's wand lands on the table like a gavel.

"Narcissa Malfoy, if I cannot get you to focus on other things, I will be taking you to a muggle vet and having you _spayed._ "

Lily gasps.

"Britain would be out of blue-eyed babies inside a year!"

She elbows her old friend.

"I'd extend the threat to you, Lily but I can't think of a way another child of yours raised by Sirius could do more damage."

Lily doesn't reply to the needling--a first--making McGonagall's brain pinwheel.

_Surely...she couldn't have...they were married scarcely a year...she's a mother to her bones...she never could have let one go...where would she even have hid it?_

Lily Potter sips her tea and glances over her lesson for Defense and Offense Against Dark Arts. McGonagall shivers.

_Merlin!_

"As I was saying before we were diverted, I doubt I have to remind you that all eyes are on Hogwarts this year. We've not had students, a sorting, or full beds in our dormitories since the rushed graduation two years after the war. Our teaching staff is short, too. Thank all that's good and magical that Hagrid got that black-market wand because there's no one else crazy enough to teach in that forest. I've owled Anastasia Greengrass and told her in no uncertain terms that she will be Charms master this year, or I'll have Lily take a torch to her family's legislative priorities. To have a Patil teaching potions and acting as school mediwitch is a true blessing. Thank you, Sumana. I hope you realize that when your girls _do_ attend, there will be no expense or inconvenience spared should you wish to remain on staff."

"I will be handling Transfiguration and Ancient Runes. If I can get the books, I'll take on Arithmancy too. If that happens, I'll need help with grading. Volunteers?"

One hand goes up in all six seats.

"I've contracted a Magical History, Artifacts and Studies professor that I think will be a pleasant surprise. Professor Binns has apparently decide to retire from a having visible phantasmal shape, making him unfit to teach. We've not had someone teach on artifacts in particular in the past."

Narcissa raises her hand as she rifles through the coil of parchment she was handed.

"Muggle Studies?"

"Did a _Malfoy_ just demand to know why we're short a muggle studies teacher?"

"When in Rome, Potter. As your family might well know. Clearly purebloods will be a minority in the future and I'd rather not have what precious few we have go stumbling blindly about with half wizarding culture an enigma to them. It would be a pity if the Greengrasses and Zabinis died out because the one they were courting enjoyed books, sports and pastimes from a culture they were ignorant of and another muggleborn beat them to their desired. I know that if I do have a child, I'll be dragging him or her to every ridiculous muggle thing I can find. Even if I hope for a pureblood union, chances are that will mean a _ennobled_ muggle-born with a vetted magical essence and not an ancestral pureblood."

Minerva nods.

"A practical view, if cynical take one why we need the position. As you can imagine, it's essentially impossible to find someone who will take the risk. The ministry tells me that the muggle media managed to get a rough idea that there were magical people and that some of them were trying to exterminate muggles. These computers of theirs make quashing a media report essentially impossible. Nowadays, two out of three muggles has a flat computer in their pocket with cameras that take a primitive version of our moving photos. So I think that loss of secrecy is a _when_ not an _if_ for the magical world. It's not as if we can continually obliviate all muggles at all times."

"Wizards or witches who can teach that topic will have muggle friends. Ones they are not willing to place in danger for a paycheck."

Lily drums her fingers on the table.

"I might have someone. Muggleborn. Isolated from magical communities. Concealing themselves from their family. Minor miracle they haven't developed an obscurial, really. Self taught, capable. Terrifying in a fight. But they're a leader of an underground network. So if I can get them, we need to give refuge to others, too."

"Done. How many, so I can tell Filch?"

"More than a dozen, less than three dozen, unless some more have started relationships. You must promise me that their presence and the safety of those they bring with them will be better guarded than the innermost vaults of the Department of Mysteries."

"Lily, if you can get me a teacher, I'll get forced marriage contracts for every pureblood witch, wizard, or _both_ of their liking. I will _personally_ hex the queen's favorite hat and swap her corgis for boggarts."

Apparently mollified, Lily nods.

"Quick review. Herbology, Augusta Longbottom. I'm told she's following the at-least-a-third rule when it comes to male company so everyone keep track of men over forty years old in nearby villages," McGonagall jokes. "Might find a couple juiced for all they're worth."

"And they think _I'm a slag,_ " Narcissa mutters.

"Potter, Defense and Offense. Patil, Potions. Greengrass, charms. Myself, Transfiguration, Runes, Arithmancy. Hagrid, Creatures. Longbottom, Herbology. I've been working on former Order members and others for a rotation of dueling and self-defense coaches. More at our next meetings."

"Now, on to the stickier topic of Heads of House. Narcissa has volunteered. Molly Weasley is a possibility as well, but I'd like to avoid that as it's likely to bring what's left of our country crumbling if she doesn't keep camping in the Wizgamot to be there when people try to get their idiocy signed into law before breakfast. I need three more and I cannot stress this enough. They _cannot be teachers_ or have grading or disciplinary power over the students. Or close blood relatives thereof. I don't think any of us are naïve enough to think that these children won't get right to work on 'repopulating' even if they've got contraceptive runes enough that the paint turns them yellow from toes to ears. I'm not stupid enough to think that some of our Heads of House might not try and take advantage of being in the dorms. That's why I am not giving them power to take away points, or anything like that."

"I wondered why you weren't offering to _teach,_ " Sumana teases Narcissa.

"Wanted the _hard_ job," Narcissa purrs. "The _long_ hours _._ The _messy_ problems."

"If you fuck my little boy, Narcissa...life will get very awkward for you. I might imply to Harry that Lucius' coma wasn't an accident. I might even wet-dog-smell hex your robes again if you push me. For old times sake."

McGonagall sinks her head between her hands.

_I survived Grindelwald's harpies, Bellatrix Lestrange and speaking to Margaret Thatcher...for this?_


	3. Plucked and Prodded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where we get up to some hijinks with the most promising Witch and Wizard of an age.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is predicated on the fact that magic is in many ways alive. When Grindelwald and Voldemort's private wars depleted the population, the magic woven into Great Britain rebelled by creating new magical lines such as the Grangers. The average muggleborn in this story is above the norm in magical power and in some cases extremely gifted--like Hermione--even to the point of demonstrating accidental magic that requires multiple trained adults to subdue.
> 
> Magic created witches like Hermione in an attempt to defend itself from extinction. Powerful, capable beings likely to survive while being both fertile and alluring enough to found long bloodlines.
> 
> This had lead to the nervousness among the "neutral" houses like Greengrass who refused to support Voldemort and are are not hostile to non-purebloods but are still traditionalists and uncomfortable with a future in which muggleborns and half-bloods are vastly dominant, relegating the lives they led to the dustbin. They enjoyed balls, and magical creature hunts, and good-natured posturing and economic and political backstabbing. The things that are not logical or necessary or even sane but until now had glued society together.

**Hermione**

Thames Family and Fertility Clinic

"My name is Hermione Granger. I'm here for an egg extraction."

The nurse looks up.

"Aren't you a bit young?"

Hermione slides the card she was given across. The one containing some sort of charm that makes the recipient dazed and suggestible.

"I'll take Room 13 Please."

"Right this way."

Her mother of all people is waiting. She'd hoped that one of the other OB/GYNs might perform the procedure.

"Well, at least it's as awkward for you as it is for me," Hermione sighs.

"I still want grandchildren, young lady. And I want to get back at you for my morning sickness. Not immediately, but I want to hear you complain about it."

"Noted."

"All right then, hop up."

\-----

Twelve eggs total. She takes the parchment she was given by Molly Weasley and designates three recipients, keeping nine for her own purposes. It's not as if she needs to sell more than one. The wizarding economy seems to be based on gold and they must have some vastly superior method of gathering it. To deposit the proceeds from her last brainstorm sold to the Department of Mysteries would crater the world's precious metal markets.

"Why are you keeping nine, Mione?"

"Just a hunch. If I settle down with a witch, I'll need them."

Her mother's eyebrows shoot up.

"That's possible?"

"Given the right runes and charms, yes. If we're both cycling, there's a bit of magic that can blend the two eggs."

"Miraculous. I'll have to see if I can get a witch as a technician. More than a few lesbian and bisexual couples who would give anything for that."

Hermione has told her mother only the outlines of the Wizarding world. Enough to protect her but not enough to frighten her off. Her mother knows that two wars were fought to dominate or exterminate muggleborns but also that the sum total was that the families that fought them annihilated themselves.

She promised her mom and dad she won't get pregnant or get married and they seem wise enough to realize that she probably _will_ have sex and will be propositioned, given that she's a promising witch with no sterility curses, centuries old feuds or encumbering alliances. Her hand in marriage and any children she might have are precious resources. She pities the first _boy_ like her. The most anyone can hope for is a half dozen children from her. A randy enough male can sire hundreds. Someone might just kidnap him and pass him around as each debutant got pregnant.

"Christmas with us in France?"

"Always, mum. Take care of dad. If anyone gets pushy or breaches the clinic's wards, tell Tonks and she'll have either Molly or Minerva come down on them like the wrath of God."

\-----

These creatures are called the Veela. Lovely women with intense sex drives and innate magic akin to a powerful human witch. Devoted to their lovers and the sires of their children.

Explanations differ. They are fallen angels who managed to keep from Hell. They are summer faeries who focused on the sex part of sex-and-violence for which faeries are known.

Hermione thinks that the most outlandish explanation is true, in this case. The veela say three goddesses created them. A vain goddess of love whose kindness was buried in pride. A jealous goddess of marriage who would burn down the moral world before letting any others win any competition with her. A goddess of revels and wildness who kept to the wild places. Aphrodite, Hera and either Artemis or the female aspect of Dionysius, unless she misses her guess. They are harpies of Greek myth who somehow have altered their predation to carnal rather than carnivorous.

What little she can find on interacting with them suggests that faerie rituals are the way to go. Accept no gifts. Do not give her name. Do not eat or drink.

The guard is an inhumanly lovely woman with sinewy arms, a spear carved entirely of oak and skin so creamy and smooth it seems to give off a glow brighter than the mid-day sun. Arousal strikes her skin like a lash. Each movement, glance and breath this woman takes licks across her skin, firing every nerve. The Allure, it's called. Passive sexual magic that can lay the most chaste and strong-willed low. 

Hermione's blood is swimming with a dangerous cocktail of medications known to impede female libido and she practically dipped her erogenous zones in lidocaine. She'd barely notice if someone licked her clit.

"What wingless enters our domain unbidden and bold as brass?"

"One who means you no harm."

"A name, girl."

"I promise my peaceable intentions in exchange for keeping my name. If I were to give my name, I think we both know that wouldn't end well."

"A false name then."

"A faerie does not lie," Hermione replies. "And out of respect for your kind, I will not lie either."

"What do you seek?"

"I will take mates of yours in exchange for a secret, a gift, and a new magic."

"You would challenge us? Take one of our maidens by conquest?"

"Not a maiden. Apolline Delacour herself and her daughters. Bond by siring."

"Fail this, girl, and you will be sacrificed to the Mother of the Winds. We will torture you, kill you, and raise you twice more. A death for each insult."

Hermione smiles.

"Failing to please a creature so lovely as Apoline would be worse than death."

"I'll demand one gift at the gate, then."

"Very well. The secret. Apolline has no daughters. Fleur and Gabrielle are not her children. None of you have daughters. You are each a triad. One at the cusp of over-ripe, one ripe as a summer berry, and one whose womanhood is the first wild rose shooting up through the snow to bloom. Crone, mother and maiden, if you like. Though your crones put a human maiden to shame."

The spear's tip is at her throat faster than Hermione can blink. She didn't see the guard move. 

"What treachery taught you this?"

Hermione pushes the tip away with a finger.

"Logic alone. No veela has ever had more than two daughters. I can find no etchings, cave paintings, accounts, poems, or even ranting old men who ever saw a daughter reach her mothers age. You wear no clothes among your own kind and you accept no visitors, yet you breed and your people are numerous are healthy. If you were breeding with your own children, inbreeding would have destroyed you eons ago. Each member of triad can birth one triad, I suspect. So I believe the total children in a veela family would be nine."

"Your gift of secret is accepted. Tread lightly and do not speak if not spoken to."

Hermione just bet her life on the concept that a human ovum and an rune crafted by druidic priestess who predate Stonehenge works on monsters of Greek myth given a serious makeover and that this potion combines properly with the muggle drug Lupron and can trigger receptivity inside the time limit.

"I smell metal in your bag, human. Metal and chemicals."

"No iron. Silver, platinum, and aluminum only. The chemicals are those in the air we breathe, frozen solid to keep my seed fresh for your queen."

"Follow me, and prepare to be humiliated."

"With Morgana's Witchknife, I shall sharpen Occam's Razor," Hermione whispers to keep her courage up.

She has no House and no Ladyship but Professor McGonagall told her to pick her words before some girlhood crush weakened her enough she let her beau pick them for her.

* * *

**Harry Potter**

His mother said he could take one book of Black family magic and one of Potter magic with him. He really had no choice on the Black book. Sirius favorite tome of sex magic is thick as two phone books and bound in supple, crimson suede. Packed with potions, finger-traceable runes and spells to make any fetishist or sex addict wince plus a few hundred pages of sex positions covering wizards, witches and enough magical creatures to make him more glad for what it _doesn't cover_ than what it does. No thestrals, no centaurs or unicorns, no spiders. Just the human-shaped things with legs or tails susceptible to tickling and holes they like to have things slid into.

He's expected to provide for two nearly-extinct lines and humiliating as it was, his mother encouraged him to at least try and find a girl he could room with. Be with in the morning and not scream and argue till he was hoarse.

The Potter book was a harder choice. For that, he wanted a challenge. The Ledgers of Kubaba. He could find no books in the family libraries that were older. He'll have to learn an especially primitive form of Sumerian to read it but some of the spells are mere diagrams, or sketches of plants and potions. Who knows how many of those plants survive, given that they were documented during the life of Kubaba, the only female ruler of Sumeria and one of the founders of the cities of Kish who lived, ruled and died 2,500 years before the birth of Jesus Christ.

It also weighs eighty pounds, even with the lightening charm and displacement on the clay tablets it is etched on. Hundreds of tablet,s but runed for displacement so only that just covers and three tablets ahead and three behind of the ones he's reading appear at any one time.

The Potters are older than they tell any of the other families. It seems they have been used as soldiers for millennia, kept close to muggle emperors, kings, prophets and the like. The swordsman in the Praetorian guard with a wand in his cuirass. Until they came to England with Hadrian, they were never numerous. Family lore blames a randy Pictish hedgewitch lovely and desperate enough for magical company to pull them away from their masters. Judging by the number of bastards orbiting the family for the next two centuries, she loaned that Potter of hers to every witch in her tribe.

His mum told him this before she boarded the Express to go ahead and prepare for classes, saying she learned it from his dad on their wedding night. Must have been a frustrating delay, Sirius teased, earning the old dog a swat with a rolled-up newspaper that made his playmate for the night startle awake from the pile of blankets on the parlor floor.

He taps the book with his wand and says the House words to seal it.

_"Semper vigilanti. Semper ferox. Semper fortis."_

The tablets flutter in an unseen wind and silvery chains wrap around the bundle, sealing it tight.

On this bed, writhing like snakes, are a pair of lilitu, as the Sumerians called the erissan of their time. Solid and fleshy, unlike a modern errisan with their smoky white forms and powers so obviously the inverse of a dementor as to send the things scuttling in terror like a rabbit before a mountain lion. With their dragonlike wings, whipping tails and glossy horns, he can see how people got the wrong idea from lilitu-erissans. The inspiration for much of the talk of demons by the desert peoples. Fortunately there was a French note in the book warning him not to bind them. Churchman's rubbish it said. Nibble the trailing edge of the flaps, it suggested, or suck on the scooped tips of their tails. Note should have bloody warned them that they sprouted claws when they came and roared loud as elephants. To actually make peace, he'd was expected to shag them until his cock was red, chafed and aching. They also play with their tails as muich as any teenage boy wanks. Possibly more. 

At least now if he meets a bloke he likes, he can take a solid buggering and enjoy having a twitching pillar of hot flesh crammed in his throat.

Harry might be the only boy in history to have summoned lilitu out of curiosity and not horniness.

He should have chosen a different spell, he realizes that now. Lovely as it is to have friends his own age and a pair of succulent, randy girls at that, given their refusal to glamour themselves they are rather hard to _sneak_ and getting them on the Express will be a nightmare. Bok-Bok with her salt-white skin and short, spiraling red horns. Like the springbok antelope, she told him. Zelle, with her longer, curlicue horns and obsidian-black, mirror shiny skin accented with splashes of red on the nape of her neck, the underside of her breasts, and between her legs. In case anyone needed a hint.

Once he makes some friends at Hogwarts, he'll have a devil of a time explaining this.

"Bok-Bok, Zelle?" he whispers. "I need to sleep. Actually sleep."

He points to his bed.

"There."

Bok-Bok's head lifts from the pillow momentarily. Zelle's tail slithers up her body, the three tips separating. She plunges one into Bok-Bok's mouth and curls the other ones around her throat. The tiny toothless suckers slurp and gurgle softly. No doubt Bok-Bok will be wearing those distinctive bundle-of-grapes hickies in overlapping patterns by morning.

"Don't get up," she purrs. " _Suck."_

They'll be the death of him. No question about it.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Semper vigilanti. Semper ferox. Semper fortis."_ is "Always vigilant. Always fierce. Always gallant."


	4. All Aboard (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where our favorites meet at last.

**Ron Weasley -- On the Hogwarts Express**

"Go to Hogwarts, mum said. Learn about magic, mum said. Keep an eye on Ginny, mum said."

What his mom hadn't said was that he'd spend the train ride in a bubble of impenetrable magical blackness and silence, almost completely deprived of sensation except for the occasional tiny moan. The compartment is freezing. Packing so many ghosts in a small space, he supposes.

Could be worse. He could be _watching_ his sister get shagged into pudding by her ghost-lovers.

Leave it to his know-it-all kid sister who never gets in trouble with their mum to find a loophole in ministry rules on necromancy. Turns out that offering a ghost upgraded living quarters and improving their physical shape _are_ legal and Ginny found a couple ghosts who were looking for a spot of fun and think living in the trunk full of her books is just dandy. Doesn't help that she's been stealing their mums muggle romance novels for years and most of the ghosts near their house were _pirates and robbers._

"Could have a least left me a book and a light," he grumbles.

Ron leans back, pulls all three of the blankets across himself and focuses on the click-click-click of the rails.

* * *

**Hermione Granger -- On the Hogwarts Express**

She had been told, repeatedly, that sex was a bit different in the wizarding world. People seemed quick to say it was only 'because of the war' but that doesn't explain the sixty-something witch at the bar in the Leaky Cauldron, levitating a oddly-shaped wooden spoon to bugger a wizard probably thirty years older than herself while he tried to keep a straight face and make coffee.

Professor McGonagall seemed _irritated_ by them but didn't say anything. Hermione's mum would have blown a gasket in a muggle coffeeshop or restaurant. No, Hermione decided, witches and wizards are perverts. The war is just their _excuse._

Her family are all muggles but they're more important to wizard survival than all the pureblood families put together. That's why she wanted to make inroads with veela. Her history books suggest that without a veela-led invasion of southeast England, the war would have been lost in a week. She was silly enough to think their rituals had any outcome other than a frenzied orgy with her crushed to the center of it.

Unfortunately, her plan to 'bond' the matriarch lasted barely long enough to get the stylus in and push the egg through. Apolline _really liked_ being pinned under her and a restrained veela is a horny veela. Hermione was flipped over and her clothes were torn off and she's fairly sure that there were claws involved at one point because she remembers a wet feeling and a healing charm being whispered. They _really_ enjoy using their feathers for sex. The next thing she remembers clearly is the nest's priestess waving her hands over Apolline and declaring her pregnant and thus--poor planning on her part--Hermione's mate to be taken wherever she liked.

Apolline turned out to be the demure one, too. Even though the woman looks like a man-eating businesswoman in her prime with an arsenal of hip-hugging skirts and shimmering satin blouses, she's the shy one. Snuggles in on one side and just asks in a soft voice if Hermione would like to kiss, or grope, or fuck her. She's also warned Hermione that she should 'rest up' during her first trimester. Apolline likes to listen to Hermione's troubles and offers her wisdom. Her memory is so long that Hermione's not sure if veela _age_ or if they somehow share memories within the tribe. She's caught Apolline using present-tense to describe figures in anecdotes from the Napoleonic wars.

Gabrielle is pressurized sex in a person-shaped bottle. She sniffs Hermione's hair when she rests her head against her and plucks at shirt buttons _unless_ she's told not to and wraps her hand around her thigh when they're just talking. At least Gabrielle looks about her age--like witches, veela bloom fast and early--so her extreme handsy-ness didn't freak out the muggles.

Fleur falls somewhere in between. When it comes to getting sex Apolline _asks,_ Gabrielle _demands,_ and Fleur merely _exists_ in the same space. Strolling around with loose dresses and black silk robes draped over her slender frame, the roll of her hips daring Hermione's eyes to follow and the gentle bounce of her firm breasts daring the loosely-tied sashes to come undone. Her sapphire gaze always seeming to whisper 'would you like to?' when their eyes meet. When the fun starts, Fleur is an consummate opportunist, quick to get her lips on any bare skin that's not been claimed.

The temptress, not the confidant or the predator.

Apparently, Hogwarts is in need of dormitory monitors so Apolline will be dormitory monitor for Ravenclaw. She assured Hermione that staff in these positions are more or less expected to fuck students and that all of wizarding Britain thinks that's why Narcissa Malfoy took the job. Hopefully the Sorting Hat will put her in Ravenclaw, then.

"Gabs!" Hermione hisses. " _Fuck_."

Gabby's delicate face lifts from between Hermione's quaking thighs.

"You were thinking too hard," she pouts, swiping her tongue to capture a string of Hermione's slick that dangled between lips and skin.

The fact that her brain managed to over fixate on her upcoming school year _up until orgasm_ is probably a sign that she's insane. Hermione, not Gabrielle, who is a model member of society when judged against her own culture.

\-----

There's a knock on the frosted glass of the compartment's door.

"Want some company?" a man's voice asks.

"Sure."

The door rolls open and a tall, black-haired boy with arresting green eyes enters and holds out his hand.

"Harry Potter."

"Hermione Granger," she replies, taking it.

"The Mother of the Future, eh? Charmed."

_Is that what they're calling me?_

When he shakes, she can see the pop and dance of his wiry muscles but it's incidental. He wasn't _flexing._ He's like Fleur, she decides as she watches him toss his rucksack into the bin overhead and throw his long legs up onto the unused bench. His lanky sprawl and his quick smirks and the way he rubs his big hands clean on his jeans aren't _affected_ preening. They're innate, or else habits so deeply learned that it's semantic. 

Harry Potter strolls, and wanders, and lopes around. Like a faithful mutt trotting beside the lady on a pleasant stroll.

"Who are your lovely friends?"

"I'm Gabrielle," she tells Harry, not bothering to do more than look over her shoulder.

"Fleur," comes the syrupy sigh as her fingers flick the next page of her novel.

"Apolline Delacour. _Lady_ Apolline Delacour."

She holds out her hand. Harry lifts it to his lips, leaving a longer-than-necessary kiss on her knuckles.

"Well, I fear I'm a poor welcoming committee for the Feather of Dawn herself," he admits.

He waggles a finger, his grin _incandescent_ and Hermione realizes that yes, boys can still be cute even with a nymphomaniac veela's breath tickling across her folds.

"But a gesture of thanks from a grateful Britain, I shall do my best."

"See that you do," Apolline smirks, crossing her legs and bouncing one stilettoes loosely on the end a her milky toe. "...Lord Potter."

Hermione looks up from her book. Rather, she looks up from _trying_ to read her book. Gabrielle's distracting clothed, let alone with her blouse undone and pulled out of her skirt and her tongue swiping her lips as her gaze fixed intently into Hermione's sex.

"Lord?" Hermione asks. "It's probably common knowledge. I'm muggleborn, sorry."

"Mmm," Harry replies, spreading his big hands out across his lap like a peacock fanning its feathers.

"Don't be. The new lines saved us from ourselves. Your family is proof of that. Your parents are muggles and yet they did more to save wizardkind in this nation than fifteen of the twenty eight old houses put together. Lord Harry James Potter, of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter, at your service."

"Might _Lady_ Potter be perturbed?" Hermione needles.

"To see you flirting with some slag with a veela just kne- _fuckfuckfuck!-_ going down on her, _"_ Hermione pants. "We're back to actively eating me out," she pants.

Harry laughs.

"My _mother_ would be relieved. My father's dead. Eldest male and now that I'm of age to start Hogwarts, lord of the line."

"I'm sorry," Hermione says, almost reflexively.

Harry shrugs.

"Family of warriors. My father died facing Voldemort when I was a baby. Voldemort fancied himself a god but gods don't bleed. Dad wounded him three times. Mother did the rest. She said it was a sharp-spring hex," he explains, spiraling a finger and forward.

"Goes in like a high-speed drill made of razor blades."

Hermione's belly gives an uncomfortable tumble.

Apolline chuckles.

"If I had to fight with a babe at breast, I'd do the same. A reliable, vicious spell with a simple motion I could do with either hand."

Harry smiles.

"Mum's clever. As to your questions. I see no slags here. Just a young woman who not one but three veela find a worthy paramour...radiant women in whose blood glows the penumbra of Mount Olympus. My mum's worried my godfather has had too much hand in my upbringing, I think. Honestly, _he is a slag_ and Sirius would be the first to tell you such. So she'd be glad I'm having a chat, rather than flirting."

"But you are flirting."

"No," Harry smiles. "Not really. You'd know," he promises.

_Fuck, this is him not flirting?_

**Author's Note:**

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